


Dusk

by loweryi



Series: Drink Deep of Quietness [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pining, listen she adds a lot, sometimes things are just beautiful, yeah roach gets a character tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:15:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22084753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loweryi/pseuds/loweryi
Summary: Geralt of Rivia doesn't like noise, which is pretty inconvenient when one's traveling companion doesn't shut up.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Drink Deep of Quietness [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1639879
Comments: 52
Kudos: 1059





	Dusk

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally gonna be a "ehh it's geralt/jaskier if you squint" but about halfway through i realized we all have 2020 vision now so squinting is illegal

When on the road, Geralt preferred dusk. 

The setting sun carried with it a cautious serenity, a hope – however naive – for a night undisturbed. Rarely ever did those nights present themselves, of course, for when the sun dipped beneath the horizon, the witcher’s senses only sharpened to keep him vigilant and sleepless. He’d always been content to sit in the stillness of the darkening forest, with the pleasant company of a crackling fire, Roach’s nickering, and the soft and solemn hum of insects not yet dead to the winter cold.

That was before he’d begun traveling with Jaskier. Or, rather, before the bard had begun travelling with _him_. 

Now it seemed serenity avoided him like a lover scorned, vanishing the moment he seemed to get too close. From when the sun rose in the mornings until it finally had the good sense to set again, the bard made _noise_. He’d speak to Geralt, then to Roach, and then to no one in particular, until he’d finally tire of his own voice sometime around mid-day. Then he’d switch to singing or humming, stopping only to scribble lyrics onto parchment and trip mindlessly over rocks he didn’t see, cussing up a storm. 

The only times Jaskier seemed to go quiet were if he was unconscious, kidnapped, or contemplative. The first two types of silence, while a hassle, were easy enough for Geralt to deal with; they had concrete solutions, even if they required him to draw his sword. It was the latter that usually drove him to frustration, the kind of nagging quiet where he’d ride for hours grinding his teeth and not notice the ache until later. They’d travel in silence with the weight of unspoken words hovering around them like a cloud of mosquitoes, and Geralt hated it. Brooding certainly wasn’t reserved only for him, but when the bard did it it felt...unnatural. 

For all the effort it took Geralt to stay sane and aware around his traveling companion, at least when the bard was noisy he was easy to keep track of. When he drifted into silence and Geralt noticed the constant footsteps behind him had stopped, he’d whirl Roach around and inevitably find Jaskier had wandered off the path and was in the grasp of a drowner or some other monster. 

Now, when the crunch of footsteps on snow had ceased sounding from behind him, Geralt let out a low and weary sigh. They were so close to the copse of trees he’d chosen to be their camp, and loathe as he was to abandon the promise of a quiet night, he hopped down off his horse. 

“Stay,” he instructed, and patted Roach once on the nose before walking in the direction of the bard’s last tracks. 

Interestingly enough, there was no struggle. There was no blood, no body dragged off into the woods. 

“Hm.”

Geralt followed the trail towards the treeline. He squinted, and in the dim light of evening, could just make out the teal shine of the bard’s telltale doublet. 

“Jaskier?” he called out. 

“Here, Geralt,” said the bard, his voice coming from behind some bushes. “I’ll be along in a moment, no need to wait up.” 

Geralt glanced back at Roach, who waited patiently in the trail. He looked at the darkening sky, the last orange glow of sunset lining the encroaching clouds. With another sigh, he ventured further into the forest.

He found Jaskier kneeling by a small divot in the snow, scribbling something on a loose sheet of parchment before looking back down at whatever was in front of him. The witcher stepped towards him, all at once curious and impatient. 

“Jaskier, we don’t have time for—”

The bard yelped and threw his arms out in front of him so as to block Geralt’s path. 

“Stop, _stop!_ ” he cried, standing up in a flurry. “You’ll step on it, you big oaf!” 

Raising an eyebrow, the witcher looked down at his toes. Nestled between some leaf litter and yesterday’s snow sat a tiny plant, bright even amongst the shadows of the forest. Its rounded green leaves shone like fresh-polished armor, and a single crimson berry sprouted from its top.

“Wintergreen,” he said, taking a step back so as to kneel. Jaskier, content that his newfound treasure was safe, sat down again. “Could work as a painkiller, but you need so much oil it’s impractical. Not good for much else,” Geralt continued, “but it’s a pleasant enough snack.”

Jaskier seemed unimpressed. “Not much else,” he muttered, standing up once more and brushing the snow and dirt from his knees. “ _‘Not much else,'_ he says. You really are a brute sometimes, Geralt.” 

“Mhm,” agreed the witcher. He stood and walked back to Roach, not looking to see if the bard was following. 

He mounted his horse and spurred her to walk once he confirmed he could hear Jaskier’s footfalls behind him. The copse was still a good thirty minute’s walk away, but closer to a stream than their current location. It would be worth the ride.

After five minutes of the third kind of unbearable silence, Geralt stopped the horse. If he didn’t ask now, the bard would be pouting and brooding all night, which was even worse than if he was yammering on incessantly. 

“Right,” he started, unclenching his jaw. “Why did you stop to look at the wintergreen?”

“Because not everything has to be _useful_ , Geralt!” Jaskier snapped. He kept walking past Roach, who pawed at the snow. “Sometimes it can just be beautiful,” he added with a grumble.

Geralt groaned. “Jaskier,” he said, “it’s a tiny fucking plant.” 

The bard busied himself with rolling up the parchment and stuffing it into his lute case. Geralt clicked, and Roach began walking again. They caught up to the bard in a matter of seconds. 

“Jaskier.” 

“It’s fine, Geralt,” he said. 

The witcher strained to hear if there was something hiding in the tone of his voice other than resignation. There wasn’t. 

“Sorry I slowed us down,” the bard added, his teeth chattering as he spoke. Sometimes Geralt couldn’t tell who was more stubborn: Roach or Jaskier. The poet shivered, the tips of his ears pink, and Geralt opened his mouth to chastise him for spending the scant coin he had on parchment and ink as opposed to some warm furs. He thought better of it. 

Instead, he rolled his eyes and trotted ahead of Jaskier. 

“Get up.” 

He leaned over and held out a hand to the bard. Jaskier stopped walking and eyed him with annoyance. 

“Up,” Geralt repeated. “Sun’s set, we need to move.”

“I already apologized,” mumbled Jaskier, bitter, but took Geralt’s hand all the same. He clambered up onto Roach and crossed his arms in his own silent protest. 

“Hold on. Gotta ride fast to beat nightfall.” 

“For fuck’s sake, Geralt, I said I was sorr—eep!” 

Geralt urged Roach into a canter, and Jaskier wound his arms around the witcher’s chest, pride momentarily abandoned. Snow kicked up from the horse, but she rode steady and true, and the distant promise of shelter grew closer with each beat of her hooves. Geralt focused on the way his breath steamed out in the cold air, the way his eyes stung in the wind. He did not focus on Jaskier pressed against his back, and certainly did not think about those moments in the past–when the bard’s complaining had grown insufferable–that they had ridden like this before. He didn’t remember the way Jaskier would hum a tune while leaned up against him, the notes reverberating in his chest, nor did he care to. 

As they neared the grove and its nearby stream, the road grew icier. He slowed Roach down, and was pleased to feel that Jaskier was no longer shivering against him. The remaining walk to the trees, however, threatened to turn back into that loathsome silence, now that the pounding hooves did not accompany their breathing. He cleared his throat and spoke. 

“Why the wintergreen?” 

“I _said_ —”

“You were sorry. I know. Why the wintergreen?” 

Jaskier sighed and released his arms from around the man, readying himself to jump off the horse. Still he said nothing. Geralt hummed, displeased. 

“Could still canter again. Got some ways to go.”

In a moment, the bard tentatively returned his hold around Geralt. 

“Wintergreen,” he said, and when Jaskier’s grip once again loosened, he clicked for Roach to trot. 

“This— _Geralt!_ This is coercion! Let me down!” 

“Never seen you so insistent on not talking before.” They started into a canter.

“Well I certainly can’t when we’re sprinting!” Jaskier yelled over the clattering of the saddlebags and swords. 

Geralt slowed down again, and Roach snorted. 

“Never seen you so worked up about a plant, either.”

Jaskier groaned. “It’s not about the fucking plant, Geralt!” They were at a walking pace again, but the bard still held on. “It wasn’t ever the plant, or some deliberate attempt at aggravation. It was just... _beautiful_.”

“Hm.” 

“The sun was setting and it shone gold on the snow, and the leaves and berry of that tiny plant looked like they were glowing. It was small, and it was important, and it was _there_. That’s all.” He huffed with a certain finality. 

They had arrived at the grove of trees, and Jaskier all too quickly jumped down. He stumbled, landing with a knee in the mud to balance before standing up and taking his belongings from one of Roach’s saddlebags. Geralt slid down from the saddle and did the same, standing shoulder to shoulder with the other man.

“I’ll go gather some wood,” Jaskier muttered, placing his items at the base of a tree and stalking away to pick up fallen branches. 

Geralt let him wander off, still pondering what he’d said. The _why_ was there, but he still didn’t understand the full extent of the bard’s irritation. He could have said he found the plant pretty earlier, and Geralt would have let him be. And yet, the third kind of silence still hung over them. _Shit_. 

He took to setting up camp, and tied Roach up near him. By the time Geralt had finished laying out the bedrolls and cookware by the fire pit he had cobbled together, Jaskier returned with an armful of firewood. He dumped it unceremoniously by the witcher before going back to his lute. Perhaps, Geralt thought, he was still irate regarding their previous night camping. Instead of helping with the set up for the night, Jaskier had just sat and strummed his lute, intense on composing another one of his ditties. Geralt had threatened him simply: if they had no firewood, the lute would make a fine substitute. Jaskier had been quite helpful since. 

A minor note twanged out from the lute as the bard took to tuning it. Geralt lit the fire with a quick sign of Igni and sat back on his haunches, watching. 

Jaskier sat no more than ten paces away, and in the firelight, Geralt was intrigued to see that the bard tuned his lute with his eyes closed, focusing just on the notes ringing out in the night. His deft hands strummed and tuned, tightening the wires and then strumming again. 

“Jaskier,” he called out. The bard opened his eyes, but did not look his way. He tried again. 

“I’m sorry I threatened the lute?” he said, shrugging and hoping he had guessed the cause of the bard’s foul mood correctly. 

Jaskier stood from his rock and walked over to the fire, perching on a rock nearer to but still across from the witcher. He laid the lute across his lap and leaned forward to warm his hands by the flames. 

“It’s not just about that either, Geralt,” he said, eyes on the flames. In the light of the fire, they looked more green than blue, and were he a poet, perhaps Geralt could have compared them to the sea. 

“Sometimes it doesn’t have to all be useful,” said the bard. “It doesn’t all have to be good for something. Purpose isn’t worth. It’s worth it just to _see_ something, and see the beauty in it.” He kept his gaze on the fire and picked up his lute, plucking idly. His hands were quick and experienced, gliding over the double strings with ease. There was a delicate precision to the way his fingertips danced atop the instrument, and as the poet continued speaking, Geralt could not tear his eyes away. 

“Hm,” was all he said, to prove that he was listening. 

“You spend a lot of time chasing down the ugly in the world. I think if you just stopped and slowed down for a moment, you could see the beauty, too. The way the veins of leaves shimmer in the morning dew, or the shine of a waning moon on a flowing stream,” he nodded in the direction of the water, “those aren’t useful. They don’t have to be good for anything to be beautiful. It doesn’t need to be complicated, or burdened with purpose. Sometimes it just has to be there at the same time you are.”

The notes bubbled forth from the lute in tune with the running water around them. The occasional croak of a frog too late to hibernate punctuated the soothing song. The crackle of the fire was a soft and constant backdrop to the lilting music, and the witcher noticed a newfound appreciation for the gentle song playing into the night, and the silvery voice accompanying it.

“At least...if you tried to see that, you’d smile more. Or yell at me less. Either works, really,” said Jaskier, looking up at Geralt with a small smile. 

With a hum and nod, Geralt smiled back, and reminded himself: when on the road, he preferred dusk, and all the serenity that came with it. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd recommend listening to [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R8P5CTlGadE) as you read the latter bit, it's what I imagined Jaskier plucking on his lute. Come hang on [twitter](https://twitter.com/Loweryi) or [tumblr!](https://futzingbarton.tumblr.com/) I'll be painting a companion piece to this soon :>


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